


A brief detour

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Series: Les Mis snippetfic [9]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, UST, snippetfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 23:55:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7778632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Enjolras glanced up at the closed door and the windows with the curtains drawn tight. It struck him as odd; Prouvaire was known to bask in sunsets with an almost fugue-like concentration. But, of course, oddest of all was Prouvaire's absence on the stoop and Grantaire's presence.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A brief detour

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Clenster for letting me shoot random little smartphone-written fics at her at equally random intervals. <3

It was not wholly unusual, Enjolras supposed, to find Grantaire on Prouvaire's front stoop. Grantaire and Prouvaire were friends with possibly more in common than could comfortably be claimed to exist between either himself and Grantaire or, honestly, himself and Prouvaire, though Enjolras's connection to Prouvaire was of rather more urgent provenance. 

"Good evening, kind sir," Grantaire said in as melodious a voice as Enjolras had ever heard him use. "It was good of you to meet me here at this halfway point." 

He had stood and was smoothing out a wrinkle in his green redingote, the multi jewel-toned collar of which was fanciful in an entirely Prouvarian way. It flattered his wayward curls and the deep brown of his eyes. 

Grantaire had a look in those eyes equal parts beseeching and slightly off-kilter, yet no fume of wine nor brandy wafted off of him like fog. If anything, he smelled faintly of tobacco and roses. His eyes were also not tinged with red. Unlike his cheeks: those had bloomed, Enjolras thought with some amazement, by some other cause than intoxication. 

He was not unaware of his own reaction to this, yet it was, as all things regarding his involuntary responses to Grantaire were, irrelevant to the matter at hand. 

"Good evening," he ventured, and Grantaire smiled with what was certainly relief. 

"I am grateful for your accompanying me. No need for tarrying longer, if you are ready," Grantaire said. He sounded puzzlingly like an actor reciting from a stilted script. 

Enjolras glanced up at the closed door and the windows with the curtains drawn tight. It struck him as odd; Prouvaire was known to bask in sunsets with an almost fugue-like concentration. But, of course, oddest of all was Prouvaire's absence on the stoop and Grantaire's presence. 

"I am as ready as I'll ever be," Enjolras said slowly, just managing to make the words a statement. 

Grantaire proffered his elbow; his eyebrows gave a jaunty wiggle. Enjolras placed his hand on Grantaire's arm and made sure not to look back at Prouvaire's door as they began down the street. 

For three blocks Enjolras maintained an acceptable silence as Grantaire regaled him with chatter about Bossuet's latest mistress, who was either being lasciviously misrepresented in the storytelling or was Bossuet's feminine twin. Enjolras had difficulty deciding which scenario would be more unfortunate for the grisette in question. 

At the fourth block, they rounded a corner and came upon a series of tables outside a café Bahorel was known to visit on occasion. It seemed unsurprising that Combeferre was there instead, sitting alone, running a fingertip along the rim of a small glass of something. He wore a cloak and top hat he had poached from Courfeyrac, if Enjolras had to guess, and a pinched expression all his own. 

Enjolras must have made some gesture that gave the appearance of his being about to greet him from across the boulevard, because Grantaire interjected, "We should hurry, the play begins in less than a half hour," and he veered sharply to the left, around the gated edge of the glum hotel they were passing. In his quick movement he stepped on Enjolras's toe and they were suddenly pressed against one another inside a littered alcove, Grantaire positioned as a shield Enjolras was still not sure how he'd found himself in possession of. 

"Apologies!" Grantaire whispered. Enjolras nodded and wiggled his toes inside his boot. Nothing broken. 

"Another minute," Grantaire muttered. 

A moment later he jumped like he'd been struck with a mallet when Combeferre touched his shoulder. Enjolras flinched too. 

"You're in the clear," Combeferre said. "They've gone on." He doffed Courfeyrac's ridiculous top hat at Enjolras. "Greetings." 

"Is Prouvaire all right?" Enjolras chose to ask, because it seemed to be the most pressing issue. 

"He's fine. Sequestered with Feuilly until we can determine who else may be watching his apartment." 

"How were you roped into this?" Enjolras asked Grantaire. 

Ah-ha, that faintest blush. Enjolras cleared his throat discreetly. 

"Roped, indeed! A series of loops and knots, and suddenly one is dangling through no fault of one's own neck-first over eternity--" 

"It is a long story," Combeferre said. He sighed. "Involving many calamities which others shall no doubt declaim with the skills of professional raconteurs." 

"We rest here on the cusp of a world still being born and named," Grantaire said with a soupçon more sarcasm than previously, and Combeferre sighed again. 

"I take it the meeting with the masons has been postponed?" Enjolras asked him. 

"All meetings with everyone have been postponed. And I am due to rescue Courfeyrac momentarily." He shook his head at the inquiry on the tip of Enjolras's tongue. "No. Plausible deniability needs to remain intact. We will talk after classes in the morning." 

"Noted," Enjolras said. "May we bid you a pleasant evening?" 

Combeferre nodded, and in a stride just short of a sprint left headed north. Courfeyrac normally lived west. Maybe he was with Joly. 

"Thank you," Enjolras told Grantaire. 

The gratitude did not seem to suit Grantaire. He looked away, almost as if offended, and smoothed his hands down the coat once more. Enjolras watched his expression darken and then grow milder, like he had found some nerve in whatever he was going to say next.

Enjolras spoke first. "I would be remiss in leaving you to wander the mischievous Parisian streets unaccompanied." 

Grantaire almost looked surprised at the sentence that had left Enjolras's mouth. Prouvaire's silky cravat had come loose, baring a hint of throat rough with a day or two's dark beard. Enjolras's fingertips itched. 

"I assure you I am perfectly adept at finding my way home from unexpected and random locales," Grantaire said.

Enjolras waved a hand around. "And if I am not?" A fib. A gambit.

Little wonder their shadowy tail, potentially as expert a spy as Enjolras had yet encountered, had eventually been fooled by both of them. In his eyes Grantaire now presented nothing but guileless flirtation and absolute recognition of Enjolras's objective. 

"I fear we have delayed too long for the theater," Enjolras said, infusing his tone with regret.

If he lowered his head so that in looking up his eyelashes were just a bit more prominent in the gesture than normal, well. Mere happenstance. He was curious what it might gain him. 

"Indeed," Grantaire said. His gaze fell, briefly, to Enjolras's mouth. He looked away, swallowed, and took a step out onto the cobblestones. "With our plans revised, I would be a poor friend not to see you home safely. Considering your...unfamiliarity with the city." He glanced left and right to deem the streets free of immediate dangers. He turned to Enjolras and held up an elbow again. "Shall we?" 

Yes, Enjolras thought, slipping his hand onto Grantaire's arm.

**Author's Note:**

> postscript: Enjolras and Grantaire later arrive at Grantaire's flat, both very casual in their demeanor. (Tralala nothing's going on tralaaa.) They enter the apartment and find Joly and Prouvaire trying on each other's clothes -- that they were undressed under, ahem, Particular Terms is more than a little obvious -- and also in possession of a waistcoat that is obviously Bahorel's. Bossuet comes in momentarily, looking frantic yet fancy in a sinch-waisted frock coat owned by Combeferre. He is missing one shoe.


End file.
